


One Step Forward...

by maebyrutherford (maeberutherford)



Series: The Right Hand [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drinking, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 11:10:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4744139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maeberutherford/pseuds/maebyrutherford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sylvie and Cullen catch up, but the fallout from his relationship with Tara remains ever present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Step Forward...

The moon had reached its apex in the night sky, whispery clouds drifting lazily across its face and cutting through the light. The faint sound of music coming from the ball intermingled with their laughter, but otherwise the alcove provided no distractions, being so secluded at the edge of the cathedral grounds. It was a spot that many of the Chantry’s residents didn’t even know existed. Cullen was quite fond of the little sanctuary, with its ivy-laden trellises and the lion statues, even though he wasn’t able to frequent it much.

Sylvie sat by his side on the small marble bench, digging her toes into the lush grass while they reminisced about their childhood in Honnleath.

“Do you remember,” Cullen said, his tongue feeling heavy from the wine, “that little bastard that used to shoot rocks at us with his slingshot? Not pebbles, but actual _rocks_? Luckily we were fast on our feet.”

She slid her feet back and forth. “Ah, Stanley. How could I forget? I always felt a little sorry for him, though. Clearly he had anger issues. I think he got it from his father, such a mean man he was.”

Cullen grabbed the wine bottle and tipped it to his lips; when nothing came out, he peered down the opening.

Sylvie laughed. “Cullen, it’s empty. Remember? We finished it not long ago.”

“Oh, right.” He set the bottle in the grass, a little embarrassed at the lapse. How much had he had to drink? It was then he remembered that there was another empty bottle lying around somewhere.

“Looks like someone is having fun tonight.” She nudged him, her eyes shining in the pale moonlight.

“I, uh, don’t normally drink this much. But I’m fine, really.” He became keenly aware of how he sounded, putting extra effort into sounding normal. Simple thoughts were becoming more difficult to process.

“Is that so?” Her eyes sparkled as she turned to face him. “Prove it. Hold your arms out to your side and touch your nose, one finger at a time.”

He straddled the bench to face her. “Care to make it interesting?”

She quirked a brow. “I love a good wager. Five silvers says you can’t do it.”

“You’re on, Forester.” Cullen grinned. He was sure it would be no trouble; he was a highly trained soldier and proper coordination was paramount. It wasn’t about the money, he just liked winning.

He extended his arms to either side, watching Sylvie smugly.

“You have to close your eyes!”

“I know how this works. How do you think we weed out drunks in the ranks?”

He closed his eyes, extended his pointer finger on his right hand and quickly brought it to his face, touching the tip of his nose. He opened one eye to see her reaction, unable to hide his satisfaction.

“You just got lucky,” Sylvie said, unimpressed. “Now the other.”

He closed his eye and swung his left finger in, only to feel it smash into his eyebrow.

“Ha! Pay up, Rutherford! You’re drunk.” She was standing next to him doing a little shuffle and holding her palm out.

“I am not!” He stood too quickly, his foot getting caught underneath the seat, and in freeing it he totally lost his balance, careening into the grass at Sylvie’s feet, the clanging of his armor broadcasting his temporary lack of grace.

“Maker, are you okay?” She was leaning over him, her hand outstretched. He could hear the amusement in her voice even though she tried to look concerned.

“I’m fine. I just might die of humiliation, is all.” He took her hand and stood up, slowly this time.

“Please. It happens to the best of us. You must have needed this.” She paused. “I can imagine why, with her being here.”

There was an uncomfortable silence before she clucked her tongue.

“Now you’ve got grass stuck in your nice armor.” She began to pick the greenery from the various joints.

Sylvie was very close to him now, he could hear her breathing through her nose, sense her body heat. Close enough to kiss, he thought, the idea coming to him seemingly from nowhere.

Cullen finally admitted to himself that he was utterly inebriated, and very, very lonely.

Those had to be the reasons he was also thinking about what were curves might feel like underneath his hands, and what her hair might look like splayed out around her in his bed. He blinked rapidly, as if that would chase away his imagination.

“There, think I got them all.” She wiped her hands on her dress, drawing his eye. It was a simple frock, and unlike Tara’s gown, left much to the imagination. When she pressed her hands to it, however, the fabric pulled tight over her ample bosom, and Maker preserve him, he _gawked_ and thought dirty, shameful things.

Copious amounts of wine always _did_ get his blood boiling, something he’d forgotten over the last few years. Or, as Dorian would have put it, he was a randy drunk.

She looked toward the grand cloister. “The music’s stopped. I should go.”

His first instinct was to protest before he realized she had the right of it. He didn’t like how much the wine had gone to his head. “I should call it a night, myself. I’ll walk you.”

They strolled back to the kitchen, a pregnant silence hanging between them. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, not trusting himself to offer any chatter. Occasionally they would exchange shy smiles before returning their attention to the path ahead.

When they reached the small yard behind the kitchen, Sylvie played with her fingers, looking at him with large eyes and a serious expression. “I want you to know that I had a nice time tonight. I’m glad that our paths crossed in Honnleath. It was so nice to see you again after all these years.”

Cullen felt a distinct sense of foreboding. “Why does that sound like a final farewell?”

She looked at her hands. “Because I think it has to be.”

“What? Why? Is it because I had one too many? Was it something I said?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s not that. I should apologize. When I approached you in Honnleath, I didn’t expect this to happen.” The short laugh that followed sounded bitter.

“This? What do you mean?”

She was silent, avoiding eye contact and hugging herself.

He struggled to speak plainly. “Sylvie, I must confess, you confound me. Talking to you, I’ve felt…happier than I’ve felt in years. I thought we could be friends again. It’s so rare, what you and I have, to find each other again after all this death and destruction. I know you feel the same way, and yet you avoid me. Why?”

She took a deep breath. “Being with you again, you have no idea what it’s meant to me. I know that if I spend time with you, I will want more, more than you’re able to give. There are things I’ve been through in my life that I cannot - will not - repeat. I just hope you can forgive me. I wish you all the best, Cullen, I truly do. I’m so proud of the man you’ve become.” There was a tremor in her voice, and before he could think of a response, she left him standing there alone amongst the piles of garbage.

He remained there for a moment, clenching his fists, ruminating on what she had said. _More than you’re able to give._ He tried to make sense of it but his notions wouldn’t connect, the drink saw to that. Tara was somehow responsible, he just knew, but when he tried to chase that train of thought he only hit a wall. He rubbed his temples; this was useless, he’d have to think this over in the morning.

Cullen took the outside path to his quarters, replaying her final words over and over, ignoring the greetings from the guards and others he passed, when the phrase he’d somehow glossed over stopped him dead in his tracks.

_I will want more._

He quickened his pace. There was chemistry between them, there was no denying it, but it was just because they’ve known each other for so long. He had wanted a friend, someone he could be himself with, who didn’t play games or The Game, someone who had known him before the trauma, before the titles, when he was just Cullen.

Then why was he already planning on getting the name of her employer from Elan? Why did the thought of Sylvie wanting to be more than friends threaten his lips with a smile and make his stomach flutter?

He reached his quarters and began to remove his armor, finding it an especially cumbersome task this evening. Once he was stripped down to his smallclothes he started to feel more at ease. This whole business was simply just a misunderstanding, and once his head was clear he would figure out the proper course of action.

Cullen climbed into bed and tried unsuccessfully to sleep. He sighed, the ache he’d felt earlier had returned, now that his loins knew something could be done about it. He unceremoniously slid his hand under his smalls and went to work, trying not to picture Tara but failing miserably, as always. Andraste preserve him, the thought of her body and their antics still turned him on, but he also didn’t have many other memories to go on. It was simply more efficient this way.

He was just getting going, thinking about the Inquisitor bent over in front of him, her perfect round ass slapping against his groin, when her image was replaced by Sylvie, her curls slipping across on her back as she turned to look back at him, her green eyes dilated with lust. It felt…inappropriate, but he didn’t fight it, and he closed his eyes, his hand pumping faster.

There was a click at the door, and without thinking he grabbed his dagger from its hiding spot under his mattress. A second later he was on his feet, poised to strike. In the darkness he could barely make out a figure.

“Whoever you are, come any closer and you’re dead!” he shouted.

“Relax. It’s only me,” a familiar voice said. A candle flickered to life near the door, revealing Tara, still wearing her red dress, her hair half undone.

He was so angry he could spit. He stormed toward her, still holding the dagger at his side. “What in the Maker’s name were you thinking? I could have slit your throat!”

“In the dark? Doubtful. This is me we’re talking about, not some amateur.” Her flippant tone only fueled his outrage. “Besides, If I were to knock, you’d never let me in.”

“On that at least we can agree. How did you get past the guards?”

She smirked. “I’m the Inquisitor, and the best rogue in Thedas. I have my ways.” Her eyes flicked to the dagger. “Now will you please drop that thing?”

He tightened his grip. “Not until you tell me what you’re doing you’re here. No, you know what – I don’t care. I want you to leave. Now!”

Tara advanced on him. “I tried to find you earlier, but you disappeared. Where did you run off to? Hiding from me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Now leave, Tara, before I have to call the guards.”

“Now now, there’s no need for that. Besides, how would that look? Aren’t we supposed to be allies?”

He scowled. “Then I’ll remove you myself.”

She was so close he could smell her, a mixture of wine, that musk scent she favored and face powder. She had the same look of excitement she would get just before she’d get the drop on an enemy, and that greatly worried him.

“You _could_ do that, but you won’t. Because part of you wants me here, Part of you was hoping for this since you saw me tonight. I could see it in your eyes. I know what wine does to you, what it does to both of us. Just admit it, Cullen. We could both get what we want, if you weren’t so damn righteous.”

The audacity of this woman enraged him. Yet, he made no move to kick her out. He said nothing, his breath quickening.

She trailed a lacquered finger across his chest, his muscles twitching under her touch. “It doesn’t have to mean that you forgive me, or that you want to get back together, if you wish to fuck me.”

He held his breath at that word, and his loins responded in kind.

“We _can_ do that, you know.” She stood on her tiptoes and whispered near his cheek while he glared down at her. “We can just _fuck_.”

He was paralyzed with indecision and raw desire, and she knew it.

Tara rubbed his chest, and the sensation of a woman’s hands – of her hands - on his skin again sent shivers down his spine. They so warm, so soft, his eyes fluttered in response, the thought of pushing her away fading. She hooked her fingers into his smalls and fell to her knees, pulling them down with her, and he hadn’t realized how hard he had gotten until his cock fell forward right in front of her face. He couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. Perhaps he didn’t want to.

She peered up through heavy eyelashes and stroked him once, twice, causing his hips to jerk forward, and all coherent thought escaped him. All he could do is stare, all he could do was think about sinking his cock into her wet mouth, and how it would feel compared to his calloused hand. 

She rubbed her cheek against his member, closing her eyes. “Maker, I’ve _missed_ you.”

Cullen licked his lips, and suddenly he was tired of denying himself, tired of always trying to do the right thing, tired of being alone. He dropped the dagger, kicked away his smalls, took hold of himself and set the tip against her mouth, his other hand clutching her hair. He wanted to blame the drink, but he knew better. Besides, she owed him.

“This means nothing.” It was a low command, and he was surprised to find that he meant every word.

She smiled before she wrapped her lips around him and eagerly took him in, agonizingly slow, pressing her tongue against him the entire way, her eyes locked with his.

There was nothing remotely romantic about anything that followed. He sought sweet release, it was more than deserved, and he’d suffered enough. She bobbed up and down his length until he took over and pounded into her mouth, harder than he’d ever dared before, holding a fistful of her hair, and she took it, took all of him, making eager sounds of pleasure and clawing at his buttocks. When he saw her hand disappear under her dress and move furiously between her legs, when he heard her garbled cries, he decided that he wanted more.

She _owed_ him.

He let go and stepped backward. She stood up and tried to kiss him.

“None of that,” he said gruffly, pushing her away from him and toward the bed. She giggled and lay on her back.

“On your knees,” he snarled, not recognizing his own voice, or the man who was doing these things.

She obliged, backing up to the edge of the bed. “I have to say, I like this side of you.”

“Quiet,” he ordered. She cooed in response.

He yanked the dress up over her hips and wasn’t entirely surprised to find that she wasn’t wearing any small clothes.  He took a moment to appreciate the sight in front of him. She was wet, just as he suspected, pink and swollen, surrounded by a perfect heart-shaped bottom, and he cursed the Maker above.

She curved her back, spreading her legs, and he wasted no more time. When he plunged himself in to the hilt, he never heard her make such a sound before, it was somewhere between a scream and a sob.

“I’ve missed you so much, Maker I’ve missed you,” she gasped when he began to move, and he stopped.

“I said Be. Quiet.” He didn’t want to hear her voice; the less intimate this was, the better. Somewhere, deep down, he was mortified at his own behavior.

“I’m sorry, I’ll be quiet, I promise, just please Cullen, don’t stop!” He’d never seen her so desperate, and in a sick way, it pleased him.

He started to move again, and she kept her word, save for her heavy panting. She _owed_ him.

It didn’t take long. His fingers dug into her flesh and he thrust hard and fast; if he was going to hate himself afterward, he wanted to make it count. She clenched around him, her moan low and long, and he followed soon after, his climax overriding all his senses, his knees locking, animalistic sounds coming from his throat. For those few moments it was pure bliss, so much more intense than his self-pleasuring, but soon it was replaced by regret and disgust. He stepped away from her, unconcerned with the mess he was leaving.

She turned over on her back, still catching her breath. “Cullen, that was-”

“Get out.” He pulled on his smalls, turning his back on her.

“Can I at least –”

“I said OUT! NOW!” He roared over his shoulder.

From the edge of his vision he could see her start at his outburst. He was almost scaring himself, his rage building steadily with each moment she remained in his presence.

“Fine, I’m leaving,” she said, almost timidly. Hastily she stepped into her shoes and opened the door. She drew a breath as if to say something, then seemed think better of it. Finally, she was gone.

He blew out the candle and crawled under the covers, curling into a fetal position. He desperately wanted to despise Tara, that would make everything so much easier, but he only had himself to blame. She had been right, and he hated himself for giving in to his baser desires, for the way he enjoyed dominating her and rationalizing it as some sort of payback. The irony was that she enjoyed such games, and he used to have trouble mustering up the ability to convincingly command her in bed. It turns out she only had to shatter his heart to get the performance she always wanted.

As he drifted off to sleep, spent and beginning to sober up, he realized Sylvie was wise to steer clear. He was more of a mess than he’d thought, and she was probably better off without him. Somewhere between the waking world and dreams, Cullen mourned the loss of his friend.

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't hate me...I promise things will get better. Darkness before the light, and all that. Tell me what you think!


End file.
